


Homicide And Other Games

by xxignoredxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 11:26:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxignoredxx/pseuds/xxignoredxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I think we've had a bit of a misunderstanding."<br/>Johnlock! Casefic!<br/>Written for johnlock challenges on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homicide And Other Games

**Author's Note:**

> It's time for another challenge! A Johnlock challenge, to be precise! This is written for christinehth on tumblr, and her prompt was “bowling centre”. At first, I was a bit confused on what a bowling centre was, but then I just realized that it's what the British call a bowling ally. So yeah, I felt pretty dumb for that. Anyway, I hope you like this girl! Your prompt was a bit hard, but I think I did okay. (:
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The almighty-Moffat does. I also do not own any trademarked thing mentioned in this story. Also, the bowling centre mentioned is one I made up in my head. If one like that actually does exist, then I do not make any money from it.

“I think we've had a bit of a misunderstanding.”

Stop. Rewind. 

“You know, Sherlock, you could do something other than dissect eyeballs on the kitchen table when you're bored,” John said with an exasperated sigh, one calloused hand running through his short, blond hair. 

Stop. Fast forward a little bit. 

The phone on the coffee table vibrated loudly through the flat, Sherlock's eyes brightened in joy as he kept his lips from smiling. 

Ah, _there_ , that's where the story begins. 

Sherlock strode past John, their previous conversation (argument) completely forgotten by the genius. John let out another sigh of defeat, but it didn't stop the excitement from bubbling in his chest. 

“Holmes. Oh, Lestrade, hello. Hm, well, it depends on what you have. Oh, no no no, that sounds so dreadfully _boring_. How many bodies so far? Good lord, what would the Yard do without me? Text me the address, we'll be there soon.” 

He snapped his phone shut and spun around to face his colleague, his bed robe swishing about and a smile on his lips. 

“Get dressed, John. We have a murder to solve.” 

**[][]**

The taxi-ride was longer than usual, but John didn't mind. Even though Sherlock was sitting entirely too still in his seat, the doctor could practically feel the excitement emitting from his friend's pores. And though he did try his best to keep a smile off his lips, the good doctor couldn't help but smile anyway. 

When they finally arrived at their destination, John was a bit confused, The cab had stopped in front of an ancient bowling centre; the wood holding the whole building together was rotting on the edges and darkened from the London pollution; a large, yellow neon sign was propped on the roof, with the 'W' in 'BOWLING' flickering; all of the lights were on inside and John could hear the laughter and knocking of pins coming from within. The surrounding buildings, however, were completely abandoned and rotting. No squad cars were in sight. 

“Um, Sherlock,” John cautiously said as the cab drove away, leaving them behind. “Did the Detective Inspector send you the wrong address?” 

With a swish of his great, wool coat, Sherlock made his way toward the ally on the right side of the building. John followed, no limp present. “It seems that Lestrade is keeping this under wraps. The owner wants to keep his business open as long as possible, probably because he can't afford the rent on this place. A homicide would make people stop coming.” 

John nodded, still hurriedly following Sherlock as the ally led to the back of the shabby building. The back ally-way was even worse than the front of the building. Garbage was spilled out all over the pavement, slightly damp from the large puddle that the dumpster stood over. The smell was horrid – as one would expect from wet trash – and it was all John could do to no pinch his nose. A forensics van had somehow made its way back there and was parked in a corner, Anderson digging around in the back for supplies. A couple of police officers were poking around in the corners, but Donovan and Lestrade were hunched over a body right in front of the dumpster. They both looked up as Sherlock not-so-very-quietly whispered “good lord” with a look of disgust on his face. 

“Hello, Freak. Watson,” Sally curtly said as she stood up and faced away from the body. John scowled at her. Lestrade sighed, still knelt by the body. 

“Hello Donovan. I see you and Anderson were up late last night. Had fun on your knees?” Sherlock said with a smile that reminded John of Mycroft. The sound of Anderson hitting his head against the metal van coupled with a loud swear made John stifle a giggle and Sally blush. 

“Sherlock, as much as I would love to hear about Anderson's sex life, you're on a case, remember? Sally, go help Anderson with the van.” Lestrade said with a sigh, even though a small smile was present on his lips. Sally glared at Sherlock before walking off with a huff. The self-proclaimed sociopath just smiled back at her before turning his full attention to the body before him. 

Slightly over-weight male in his late 30's; a full head of deep brown hair that was just beginning to thin around the ears, or rather, his left ear; brown eyes were forever stuck wide open in fear at some unknown killer; bitten-down finger-nails due to an unhappy lifestyle and never having enough money; cheap khaki pants with holes beginning to form in the crotch and knees; a black bowling shirt with two red stripes down the middle and a small logo over the right breast pocket; white and blue trainers that, in the past, had been used for a job that Sherlock couldn't quite place yet; the right side of the man's face had been smashed in with a blunt object, leaving a trail of blood, skull and brain to blend in with the murky puddle. 

Sherlock and John both knelt down, peering into the large hole that was in this poor man's skull. The doctor pulled on a rubber glove that Lestrade had given him and began to inspect the body. 

“Male, late 30's, around 182-centimeters tall. His body is still warm to the touch, so he's only been dead for maybe four to six hours, and I don't think you need me to tell you how he died, hm?” 

John looked up at Sherlock, his mouth pulled tight. Sherlock seemed to have completely missed what John was saying. His ice-blue eyes roamed over the body quickly, and the ex-army doctor could almost see his friends massive brain piecing together exactly what this man had for breakfast three days ago. 

“One of the female workers found him while taking the trash out,” Lestrade offered as John looked up at him, Sherlock's eyes still roaming the body. “Poor girl was traumatized, but the owner didn't want to close shop. Said he didn't want to cause alarm.” 

“Which means he just wants to make all the money he still can before this hell-hole is shut down,” Sherlock said with a frown as he pulled out his small magnifying glass from his coat pocket. “This unfortunate soul here is a regular – the chafing on his right pointer, middle and index fingers is a dead giveaway – even though he certainly doesn't have the extra cash, he still comes anyway. The weapon of choice, however, is a bit more difficult to figure out-” 

Sherlock repositioned himself over the body, practically shouldering Lestrade out of the way. Greg rolled his eyes and sighed, standing up and hovering behind the pair, muttering, “If you weren't so good, I'd deck you.” 

“-The murder weapon was large and round, so it couldn't have been a hammer. Perhaps a shoe? Aside from the mud from the puddle, there doesn't seem to be any dry dirt in his wound, which rules out a shoe. The gash is much to large to be a pipe though. What could it be...?” 

John waited patiently as Sherlock hunched over the body and muttered to himself, going over a variation of weapons that were too ludicrous to have _actually_ been the weapon. Before long, Watson started to get a little annoyed and loudly cleared his throat, gaining the surprised attention of both Lestrade and Sherlock. 

Another sigh and an almost-smile, John steadily said, “A bowling ball, Sherlock. The wound is much too big to be stomped in with a foot, and much too round for a pipe or hammer. Also, look where we are. If this man is really a regular here, then where's his bowling bag? The murderer most likely smashed his skull in with the bowling ball, then took it with him.” 

It was moments like this, when he knew something that Sherlock hadn't concluded yet, that John felt on top of the world. 

Ice blue eyes flickered to match John's plain brown ones. Whenever this happened (though, the times it happened was few and far between), whenever Sherlock's eyes were turned to him with wonder and slight pride, John could feel his heart rate rise and his palms get slightly sweaty. 

_C'mon Watson, keep your focus. There's a dead body right next to you._

“Well done, John,” Sherlock said as he moved his gaze back to the corpse. “It's so clear now. I suspected a bowling ball, but it was quite low on the list because of obscurity. Ten-points to the killer for originality.” 

John rolled his eyes. _Of course you would give points to a killer._

Sherlock finally stood up, not even giving the lifeless body a second glance. “Lestrade, have Molly take a look at him. I need the lab reports tomorrow.” The younger Holmes flashed Greg a socially-acceptable smile before striding past, heading toward the alleyway. John nodded and smiled at Lestrade (“Night Greg, have a good one.”) before following Sherlock. 

After walking for two blocks, chasing a cab down (not before John stepped into a strangely deep puddle, filling his shoe with mud and oil), sitting silently in the long cab-ride back to Baker Street where Sherlock left John to pay the cabby, they were finally home. 

Once John actually got inside and took off his coat, he sighed. Sherlock, per usual whilst on a case, was laying on his back, hands folded into a triangle with his delicate finger-tips resting on his lips. It was as if the couch in their flat was made just for those long limbs of his. Those ice-blue eyes were staring at the ceiling, but John knew that his flatmate's thoughts were anywhere but in 221B. 

John sighed once again before turning and heading upstairs to his own bedroom. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

**[][]**

“Oh, John, _there_ you are. I've been trying to get your attention for hours now. Would you go to Barts for me and get the results from Molly? I need them now, even though I already know what the papers already say, I just need verification. And, John, while you're out, could you get some more milk? We've been out for about a week now.” 

A deep breath and running one hand through his short hair was all John felt he could manage. Standing barefoot in the kitchen in only his pajamas at eight in the morning with Sherlock making demands was almost enough to make John want to take a sick day. 

Almost. 

Without a word, John turned and went back up to his bedroom. A quick shower and his favourite thick, tan sweater already had John in a better mood, and he was feeling even better as he drank a quick cuppa and ate a slice of toast with jam. 

Slipping on an overcoat and shoving his feet into a pair of brown boots, John glanced over at Sherlock. The self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath was sitting slightly hunched over his own laptop (for once), his eyes illuminated by the soft glow of the screen. He seemed so engrossed in whatever he was looking at on the laptop, John didn't even know if Sherlock would notice him leaving. 

“Sherlock, I'm leaving now. Do you need anything else while I'm out?” 

The only response John got was the click-clack of keys on the keyboard. The doctor smiled and sighed, grabbing his keys and his mobile before heading out into the hallway, quickly making his way down the 17 steps from 221B. 

“Oh, John dear, there you are!” 

John paused just as his hand was on the doorknob. He turned and smiled at Mrs. Hudson, who was holding a cuppa in her right hand and fidgeting with her hair with her left. 

“Morning, Mrs. Hudson. What can I help you with?” John asked with a smile. With Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock there, 221B Baker Street was John's favourite place to be. Warmth, family, and heads in the freezer was what he loved coming home from work to. 

Mrs. Hudson moved closer to John, resting her left hand on his right forearm. “Oh, John dear, when you get back, will you stop by my flat so that you can bring a bowl of soup up for Sherlock? I know you're both on a case and all, but it's getting so dreadfully cold out now, I want him to eat well and keep from getting ill.” 

Smiling and nodding, John replied, “Yes, yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'll make sure he gets some of your delicious soup. And do make sure there's a bowl for me too; Sherlock's not the only one who can get sick, you know?” 

His dear landlady (housekeeper) smiled back at John before squeezing his arm and letting him go. John bid farewell before heading out into the brisk, yet sunny, late-fall day. 

[][] 

“Oh! John, I didn't know you were here!” 

John did his best to pleasantly smile while removing his hands from his coat pockets. “Sorry Molly, I did come in a bit quiet. I'm just here to pick up the lab results for Sherlock.” 

Molly glanced at the double-swinging doors that led out of the lab, then focused back on John. “Sherlock didn't come with you?” 

The army doctor smiled again, but looked down at the over-sanitized tiled floor. “No, Sherlock is at the flat dong research. He sent me here alone.” 

“Wow, he must really trust you then.” 

Before John could reply, Molly was quickly moving across the room and grabbed an open file from the counter that held a variety of microscopes and coloured vials that possibly held chemicals. John followed her, still a bit confused about her statement. 

“Your body, Mr. Alan G. Lewis, born in Liverpool, 32 years of age, and quite a heavy drinker. Before you ask, no, he wasn't drunk at the time of death. But when I opened him up, his liver was severely damaged, which suggests he has been drinking for a very long time. Cause of death, blunt force trauma to the right side of the skull, but I'm sure it doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. _Why_ his head was smashed in, that's Sherlock's job.” 

“What do you mean by 'Sherlock must trust me'?” 

Molly looked up from the chart, confused for a moment before remembering what she had said. “Oh, John, certainly you already know that Sherlock trusts you, right?” 

John gave her a bit of a stern look before her mouth opened slightly in a silent ' _oh_ '. She set the chart back down on the counter behind her and leaned against it, facing John with her arms crossed. “Well, John, Sherlock has never sent someone to come fetch _anything_ for him before – not even Lestrade. I think he's scared they'll mess it up. But, he sent you probably without even thinking about it much. You should be happy you're on his good side.” 

With a small sigh and a smile, John looked up at Molly. “Well, if that's true, then I should get the report back to him soon then, hm?” 

[][] 

After stopping at the nearest Tesco for milk and grabbing a cab, John finally made it back to Baker Street. The sun was just past the middle of the sky, and even though the doctor hadn't been out for more than a couple of hours, he was already quite tired and ready to have a relaxing day at home. 

Climbing up the 17 steps that led to 221B (wincing slightly when the fifth one squeaked), John was not very surprised to find Sherlock laying on the couch with his fingers folded into a triangle, his ice-blue eyes fixated on something that wasn't on the ceiling. What did surprise John, however, was that his flatmate was only wearing his pajama bottoms and silk bed robe, no shirt on at all. 

_Even in the dead of winter, Sherlock can look amazing._

The ex-solider stood transfixed in the doorway. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to spend days on end in his bed clothes, however it was unusual for him to run about without a shirt on. 

“ _Wow, he must really trust you then.”_

_Shut up, he's just being comfortable. Even if it's the middle of winter and bloody freezing outside._

“Uh,” Coughing. “Sherlock? Aren't you cold like that? Which reminds me, Mrs. Hudson made some soup for us, she wants us to go down and get some.” 

Sherlock turned his head and fixed his gaze on John as he finally managed to move away from the doorway and into the kitchen. The shorter man didn't even flinch when he saw the tray of severed finger-tips between the carton of half-and-half and a plastic bag full of what appeared to be the intestines of a small animal. John shrugged off his coat and placed it on the back of one of the dining chairs before looking over at Sherlock again. 

“Sherlock? Didn't you hear me? Mrs. Hudson made some soup. She wants you to have some, she's worried you'll get ill.” 

“No.” 

Sigh. “No what?” 

“No, I will not have any soup.” 

Another sigh. “Why?” 

“We're on a case, John. Bodily needs do not matter to me at the moment. I can eat once we have solved the case, which will most likely be later tonight.” 

Exasperated sigh. “Right, well, Mrs. Hudson will be sad that you didn't come down. I'll go get some for myself then.” 

John left his flatmate on the couch as he hurried downstairs to grab a bowl of soup from his landlady (housekeeper). Really, he had only intended in dropping by to grab his supper, but after explaining to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock wouldn't be joining them, she had looked so down that John decided to eat with her and chit chat. Nothing wrong with gossiping about the members of the police force with your housekeeper (landlady). 

By the time John made it out of Mrs. Hudson's flat, the sun was beginning to dip below the tops of the buildings, shining orange through the old windows. It's funny how two (or three) bowls of soup and idle gossip can make time fly. 

Opening the door to 221B, John found Sherlock in the exact same position; on the couch with no shirt on. 

“Jesus Sherlock – put on a shirt! I'm getting cold just looking at you.” 

The taller man sprung up from the sofa and raced over to the mantle where is violin case was set. Sherlock grabbed his beloved violin from it's case and sat back down in his chair. Though he caressed the strings, he did not play a single note. 

“I'll get dressed later.” 

John collapsed into the chair opposite of Sherlock. “Later? Did you solve the case?” 

“Not quite. We're going back to the bowling ally tonight, John. We need to pretend to be customers so that I can prove my theory-” John almost started laughing. Sherlock looked up at him in slight annoyance. “What? Did anything I just say strike you funny?” 

“No, no Sherlock. But, I do wonder – do you even know how to bowl?” 

For a fraction of a second their eyes met, and John would have bet his life that he had seen Sherlock's cheeks turn ever-so-slightly redder and his eyes widen just a hair. And, for a complete four-point-two seconds, John Watson felt a little sorry that he had even tried to make fun of Sherlock Holmes in the first place. 

Just as quick as the moment had come, it was gone. Sherlock had his usual emotionless face on and his hands were caressing his precious violin. If John had even so much as blinked one eye, the doctor would have thought he made it all up in his head. 

“Go get changed, John – we're going out tonight.” 

**[][]**

“A ten and eight in men's, please.” Sherlock said with a pleasant smile, his face half hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and his pale arms half-showing due to the rolled up sleeves of a plain white collared shirt. John almost had half a mind to roll his eyes, but then he remembered that they were supposed to act normal, so he didn't. 

It really was quite amazing how Sherlock could transform from being the only consulting detective in the world to the normal man now before John. It almost looked like the person Sherlock was now pretending to be had a wife and two kids at home, possibly a golden retriever who was loyal and only bit him once. He didn't look at all like the man he really was – who went home to his flatmate, where they slept in separate rooms and didn't own any pets at all (the heads in the freezer don't really count). 

_Stop. Stop it John. We're on a case._

The clerk came back with their shoes, Sherlock paid (for once), and they were on their way down to the third lane. To their left was the check-in for shoes and bowling lanes, the walls littered with lockers for long-time bowlers and team members. On their left were the actual bowling lanes – only 5 were in this small building, and they looked like they had never been cleaned since they were first put in. 

Everything was dirty with age and food, and John desperately wanted to wash his hands. 

“Sherlock,” John tried to say quietly, but it was almost impossible with the noise of the pins being knocked over. “Why exactly do we need to play a game? Aren't we a bit old for this?” 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder as they reached their lane. A small table with a computer-score board was between them and the lane. The taller man grabbed a couple of bowling balls from the rack behind John. “We need to fit in. We can't just come in here and gamble – it would look strange. Just one game, it'll go by fast.” 

John took the heavier ball from Sherlock. “Gamble? Why do you need to gamble?” 

Eye-rolling. “John, this Alan fellow had a drinking problem, correct? Drinking leads to poor choices, and since he came here quite often we can assume that he would gamble with the owner. The owner here gambles with his customers on the side, mainly because he isn't making enough money with his business alone. His wife must be furious. My theory is that Alan drank a little too munch one night and lost too much money. When he couldn't pay the owner – well, I think you know what happened after that.” 

Pushing buttons on the computer screen, John managed to set up a game for two. “Alright, alright, but let's try to finish up quickly. This place is giving me OCD.” 

Another eye-roll. “Fine. You go first.” 

John crossed his arms over his chest and sat in one of the plastic chairs attached to the plastic table. “No, you go; I entered your name first.” 

With a huff, Sherlock marched over to the start of their lane. It reminded John of a child having a tantrum, which made him giggle slightly. _I swear, he's just a giant, incredibly smart, man-child._

_He's your man-child, though._

John managed to suppress a blush as he watched Sherlock position himself. With long, graceful arms, the taller man extended his arm behind him, cradling the heavy ball in his right hand. For a moment, it was as if time was standing still – the room had gone quiet and all the lights were focused on this tall, wonderful, intolerable man named Sherlock Holmes. John's breath hitched as he clenched his fists. 

And then Sherlock swung his arm forward and threw the ball down the wood lane with so much force it actually bounced a little before veering off to the left straight into the gutter. 

John laughed so hard he thought he would start crying, and he knew is face must be redder than any stop light in London. It was ridiculous, the thought that his friend would look so graceful with a _bowling ball,_ and then just fail so perfectly. John wished he had taken a video with his phone. 

Sherlock's face was tinged pink as he spun around, looking even more hilarious with those large glasses on that just couldn't hide his annoyed pout. John laughed even harder as he tried to stand up and take his turn. 

“Oh, the great Sherlock doesn't know how to bowl? I thought you said you had gone bowling before?” 

Crossed arms with a huff. “I lied, so what? Activities like this never interested me one bit, but it's for the case. I stayed home all day watching videos of other people playing. It's so simple in theory! Why didn't it work?” 

A smile crept onto his lips. “Sherlock, do you want me to teach you how to bowl?” 

And offended look crossed those high-cheek bones. “You will do no such thing. I will learn from observing, thank you.” 

John merely shrugged as he grabbed his bowling ball to take his turn. But, even as he tried to clear his mind and make sure he had a good shot at the pins, he could feel Sherlock's eyes burning holes into his back. Those eyes, roaming from the very tip-top of his dusty-gold hair down to the bottom of his uncomfortable rental shoes that were giving John a blister on his left pinkie toe. 

And that's how it was the entire game – Sherlock studying John's back like it was a dead body – John doing his best to ignore Sherlock (and try to not look at Sherlock's back in return). 

No one can deny it – Sherlock is attractive. At a glance. Then, when you get to know him, he's always so brute with his words and inattentive to others emotions, people usually flee. But, the one thing everyone can agree on – Sherlock is one attractive man. _No wonder Molly likes him so much._

Molly. Molly, those words she had said to John just a few hours ago. _Wow, he must really trust you then._ Why did she have to say something so sentimental as that? Of course, John had trusted Sherlock with his life (it's not like he can hide anything from the genius anyway), but not once had John thought about if Sherlock trusted him or not. Sure, being slightly smarter than the average Joe, he knew that his flatmate valued John as a friend. That itself was clear. 

But trust? John's eyes found their way to the pale skin of Sherlock's neck as his friend took his turn to bowl. He had never thought about trust before. They had saved each other's lives on more than one occasion, but the thought _does Sherlock trust me?_ had never even crossed his mind. 

Sherlock spun around on his heel and met John's gaze, a smile on his lips. The knocking of pins was loud and the computer told John that Sherlock had just made a strike. 

“Alright, I think that's enough playing. Ready to go chat with the owner?” Sherlock asked as he stood in front of his friend, hands casually in his pockets. 

John laughed as they made their way back to the shoe-clerk. After getting their own shoes back on (John still really wanted to wash his hands), the duo took seats at the small bar near the front door. The doctor ordered a pint of beer, but didn't drink any. Sherlock ordered nothing. 

The owner of the bowling ally was behind the counter, serving other people drinks and giving the only waitress food and beer when needed. The owner was a short man, balding badly (he really should just shave it off), yet he had plenty of hair on his arms and fingers. His nose was crooked from being broken many years ago and never seeing a doctor about it. He had no facial hair, but the skin on his chin was dry from trying to shave it too often. 

An old TV sat atop a bookshelf right behind the owner. The horse races were playing with the volume too low and the other bartenders cheering too loudly. 

“Any horses doing good tonight?” Sherlock asked, surprising John at how loud his voice could carry. 

The owner looked up and smiled. He had a silver tooth. “Well, you won't know until you gamble a little, no?” 

John tore his eyes away from the cheering crowd to look between the owner and Sherlock. “Betting on horses? Is that even legal here? Sherlock-” 

Sherlock clapped a hand down hard on John's left shoulder, squeezing a bit tighter than necessary and looked John right in the eye. “Oh, come on John. It's all just between friends, right? No harm done,” The glasses-wearing man looked away from his friend, smiling at the barkeep. “My friend here doesn't go out very often, the wife sure does keep him busy at home.” 

The disguised man forced out a laugh; the owner laughed along, nodding; John just sat there with his eyes a little wide, Sherlock's hand still gripping his left shoulder right above his scar. John shrugged it off, leaving his friend to make idle chit-chat with the owner while he looked around the bar. Everyone else sitting around them were fixated on the TV and the horses racing. 

“I'll place a bet on Dancing Fern, and my friend will place on Apple Martini.” 

John nearly burst into laughter, but did everything he could to keep it in. “Sherlock? Are those horses?” 

Sherlock looked over at John with a slightly annoyed expression and a forced smile. “Yes John, those are horses. Want to bet with me?” 

John shrugged, sighing. “Sure, why not?” 

Turning his attention back to the TV on his right, John couldn't even tell which horses Sherlock had just bet on. They all looked pretty much the same, and the TV was so small, it's not like John could really see insignificant differences anyway. Everyone around him seemed to know which horses were which, though. 

After a while, the race seemed to be nearing it's end. The men around them were practically overflowing with excitement (or dread), and it was almost enough to make John slightly anxious. The announcer on the TV was talking faster and faster, his own excitement building. Suddenly, everyone went quiet as the announcer spoke: 

“Blue Bonnet wins this race! Followed by -” 

The rest of the announcement was drowned out by the cheers of the other men. John could barely make out the names of the other horses in the top ranks, but he was positive the names Sherlock had picked out weren't in the top. John looked over at his friend. Sherlock's face was calm, but the doctor could almost see a smile in his eyes. 

_Oh god, what did he get us into?_

The owner set a glass of beer down on the counter in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective glanced at the glass before looking up at the barkeep. “I didn't order this.” 

A fake smile. “I know – thought I'd give you a free glass, since you and your friend are paying big and all.” 

John felt all the blood drain from his face. “Sh-Sherlock,” John whispered, leaning in close to the man next to him. “I didn't bring much money with me. How much did you bet?” 

Sherlock leaned in closer. John could feel his heart thump. “More than we both have.” 

Anger. “Sherlock, what the bloody hell? If I had known we'd be gambling, I would have brought more! For the love of – I sure hope you know what you're doing.” 

The taller man leaned away from John, a small smile still in his eyes. He turned to look at the owner, who was not-so-patiently waiting for them. “I'm sorry, but it seems that we didn't bring enough money to pay. Could we possibly come back tomorrow?” 

The barkeep's eyes darkened. “I'm terribly sorry, but that's just not an option.” 

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, acting much too casual about this whole situation in John's opinion. “Well, there's no way we can pay.” 

The owner smiled again, but it wasn't pleasant at all. “If you boys would kindly follow me, we can discuss this a bit more, ah, _privately.”_

John sighed. Sherlock seemed more than happy to follow. 

Both men followed the owner through the bowling ally before they made it to a door in the back. Once outside, John recognized it as the ally way where poor Alan G. Lewis had been found. The blood and brain had been cleaned up; the dumpster had not. A light rain was falling down from the sky. John shoved his hands into his coat pocket as the owner began talking again. 

“Well boys, we have a couple of options. One, you can pay me now, like good men. Or, two, we can have a chat with my business men about our little problem. Which will it be?” 

John glanced over at Sherlock. The other man seemed to be completely calm, as if they were just talking about the rain falling down on them at that moment. John would have very much like to punch him in the face. 

Sherlock smiled at the owner. “I think we'd like to talk with your business men, if that's possible. If we can work something out, we would very much appreciate it.” 

The owner smiled again, his teeth feline-like. “If that's your choice. Be right back.” He turned and went through the back door, leaving them out in the rain. 

John moved in front of Sherlock once the door was firmly shut. “You know they killed Alan because he couldn't pay, right? How much do you bet he's going to get a couple of thugs to off us? Wait, don't bet, that might get us killed even worse.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know what I'm doing, John. Of course I know they killed that Alan fellow because he couldn't pay. I already texted Lestrade, the Yard should be here any moment.” 

Rolling his eyes (it felt like he was doing that a lot lately), John reached around his back and felt for his gun. Reassured that it was there, he moved away from Sherlock before muttering to himself, “If we die from this, I'm going to shoot you in the foot, I swear to whatever god you believe in.” 

The door opened again just as John moved back to his original place. The owner had brought two large men with him (both dressed in plain white t-shirts and jeans, one bald and wearing sunglasses, one with reddish hair and a missing tooth). One of them, the bald one, had a baseball bat with him, held loosely in his right hand. John felt his own hands go steady with adrenaline. 

“Alright boys,” the owner said, folding his arms over his chest. “Now, rethink your options. Are you gonna pay, or are we gonna 'talk' business?” 

John glanced at Sherlock. The Yard hadn't shown up yet, and it seemed that Sherlock was trying to think of ways to buy a little more time. Long, nimble fingers reached up to take off the fake glasses. 

“As I said,” Sherlock replied, purposefully making his voice a little shaky. “We don't have enough money right now. We can come back first thing tomorrow morning though, you have our word.” 

The crony with the bat snorted. “Last time th' boss trust'd some'uns word, it did'n end very well for 'em.” 

The owner glared at the bat-man. “How about we keep things like that to ourselves, hm?” 

John could see where this was going. He knew Sherlock did too. Leaning over slightly, he did his best to whisper. “Sherlock?” 

“Yes John?” Sherlock whispered back, his baritone voice sending a slight shiver down John's neck. 

“Do you trust me?” 

The bald man with raised the bat over his shoulder. 

“Yes, of course. Why - ?” 

Before Sherlock could reply, John quickly reached behind his back and pulled his gun out from where it had been tucked in his jeans. The three men standing in front of them didn't even have enough time to register what John had done before the doctor shot all three of them in the right foot. All three of the men screamed in agony. John kicked the bat away, causing it to slide halfway under the filthy dumpster. 

John turned to Sherlock, who had a look of surprise, pride and something he couldn't quite place written on his face. The men behind John were moaning in agony. 

“Let's go!” John yelled, tucking his gun back into his jeans before he grabbed Sherlock's right hand with his left before pulling him along, running out of the ally way. 

**[][]**

They had run the whole way back, adrenaline keeping their legs moving and their hearts thumping in their throats. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had taken the lead, still gripping John's hand in such a vice, John was sure that even if he had wanted to let go, he wouldn't have been able to. To be perfectly honest with himself, he was okay with being dragged around the London ally ways by Sherlock. 

Back at Baker Street, back in their own flat, back in their living room; John was breathing hard, Sherlock panting next to him. There was still too much adrenaline coursing through his veins to be able to sit down properly in a chair, let alone think about the case. John removed his gun, running a hand through his short hair. 

John looked over at Sherlock; his cheeks were flushed from the cold air and his mouth was slightly open with heavy breathing. His usual mess of curls were even more entangled, and John wanted to do nothing but run his hands through them. His previously-tailored clothing were now rumpled from the night air and frantic running. Sherlock was staring at John's feet, his eyes wide with the thrill of gunshots. 

He was perfect. 

“Sherlock,” John panted. There was no denying it now. Sherlock Holmes was attractive, and John H. Watson was attracted to him in more ways than one. 

Sherlock's eyes slowly flicked up to John. He looked John up and down, surely doing his own deductions about his only friend's state. His pupils were blown wider than John had ever seen them, and it made John lick his lips nervously. Sherlock's ice-blue orbs fixated on John's lips like they were his new experiment on the kitchen table. 

“John, I -” 

Without giving him a chance to finish, John strode over to his flatmate, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and kissed him with such fervor that Irene Adler would have been proud. 

It could have been the adrenaline; it could have been the fact that John, instead of Sherlock, had saved them; it could have been the months of John trying to deny that his infuriating flatmate was more attractive than anyone he had ever seen in his life - but there was no denying that John wanted to kiss Sherlock. 

It was more amazing that Sherlock was kissing him back with full force. 

John reached up to grip Sherlock's pale face ( _cheekbones so sharp, you could cut yourself with them_ ), doing his best to deepen the kiss as much as physically possible. His friend gripped the front of John's coat tightly, pulling on it roughly as he removed it as quickly. Sherlock opened his mouth, biting John's bottom lip. The doctor groaned, moving his body as close to the consulting detective as he could manage. 

Not satisfied with their body proximity, John moved his hands from Sherlock's face to his chest, pushing him until his back was against the mantle place as his brown coat fell to the floor behind them. Now it was not out of the question for John to push his body roughly against Sherlock. 

Unable to breathe properly anymore, John moved his mouth from Sherlock's lips to his throat. Biting down softly and licking right above his pulse, Sherlock groaned. The shorter man could feel the vibrations on his own lips, which sent blood straight to his prick. John ground his hips into Sherlock's, wanting so badly to feel friction. To his surprise, the dark haired man willingly ground his hips back, moaning as he did so. 

The vibration of Sherlock's phone in his left front pocket caused John to sigh, unwillingly detach his lips, and stop. He moved to pull away, but Sherlock forcefully placed a hand on the back of his neck and pulled John back in. 

“Dear god John, ignore the phone,” Sherlock all but moaned as he dug his phone out of his pocket and threw it across the room. John happily obeyed. 

John's teeth and lips attacked Sherlock's neck once again, gaining a satisfied sigh from the taller man. 

With no hesitation, Sherlock reached around John, caressing his back lightly before firmly gripping his arse through his jeans. John moaned, _ohmygod Sherlock Holmes is touching my butt,_ before grinding his hips forward, their cocks pressed against each other. Even though they both still had layers of clothes on (too much, in the doctor's medical opinion), both men moaned at the increased friction. Sherlock began to repeatedly grind his own hips forward, digging his hands harder into John's arse. John groaned loudly, panting against Sherlock's pale neck. Oh, the things John wanted to do to Sherlock, _press him harder into the wall, bend him over the kitchen table, kneel between his legs, grab his hair and yank his head back, touch him all over, kiss the tip -_

“Oh my god.” 

John pulled away from Sherlock as if he had been on fire. He turned around, stumbling a bit, about ready to punch him in the face. 

“Jesus christ Greg! Have you ever heard of a doorbell?” 

Lestrade stood awkwardly in the doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. He looked quite embarrassed, but not as much as Sherlock did, or as much as John felt through his anger. 

“I think we've had a bit of a misunderstanding.” 

“What the bloody hell is he talking about?” John almost yelled as he looked over at Sherlock's red face. 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said with surprising calmness, despite his messy hair, rumpled clothes and obvious erection. “I texted you everything you needed to know. Could you _please_ explain why you felt the need to bother us while we're preoccupied?” 

Greg cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I was planning on visiting in the morning. That's until I went to the crime scene and found three men with holes in their feet.” Lestrade shifted awkwardly, glancing up at John. “Come to the Yard first thing in the morning, and I'll do my best to forget about this.” 

With a flushed face and averted eyes, Greg turned and left as fast as his feet would carry him. 

John sighed, his cock still uncomfortably hard in his pants. He looked over at Sherlock, who seemed to be in much of the same state. Leaning over, John bit his friends (flatmate? lover? partner?) neck before whispering in a husky voice, “Bedroom?” 

Sherlock pulled John into his room faster than Lestrade had left their flat. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my lord. This is the longest one-shot I have ever done ever.
> 
> To be honest, I wrote the last bit at midnight while I had gotten almost no sleep the night before. So, the next morning when I went to go re-read it, there was so many misspelled words, I laughed to myself as I cried.
> 
> Thank god I checked for that.
> 
> I really hope you all enjoyed this! Thank you for reading! And thank you to flyingpigmonkey for being a wonderful beta. My fanficiton career would be totally over without you.
> 
> (maybe an epilogue of sexy sex if you all want it)
> 
> (i'll probably do it, even if you don't want it)


End file.
